


merely players

by equestrianstatue



Category: British Actor RPF, Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: But Surprisingly Non-Horrible Face Slapping, Casual Sex, Face Slapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: It’s the third or fourth time they’ve had this conversation— in which David usually laughs, or prevaricates, or says something annoyingly endearing like, “Oh, but all this is just lovely,”— that David sighs, and rubs a couple of fingers in one eye, and says, “Well, all right then, you could slap me in the face.”
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 62
Kudos: 145





	merely players

Without question, one of the least smooth things that Michael has ever said or done in bed is to produce a long, stunned pause, followed eventually by, “Sorry, what?”

“Oh, no,” David says, immediately, although he doesn’t look so much embarrassed as extremely apologetic. “No, you really don’t have to. It was just a thought, and not for everyone, obviously, so— ”

Michael, who is still abruptly revising his assumption that he must have misheard David the first time, just stares at him.

On the slightly improbable handful of occasions they have ended up like this, David has been not exactly reticent, but not exactly desperate to take the wheel, either. “C’mon, anything you want, tell me, let’s do it,” Michael had murmured, giddy and a bit drunk the first time, trying to unbutton David’s shirt while David’s hands were sliding into the back of his jeans; but David had gone rather high-voiced and oddly bashful about it all, until Michael put him out of his misery and started feeling him up instead.

When David does tell him what he wants, it’s rarely out loud. There are suggestions, clues: hopeful gestures, or a particular angling of his body. Michael likes to think he has good instincts, pays attention to people, can read these kinds of maps. But sometimes you could do with a bloody signpost.

But Michael hasn’t pushed it too much. He likes David an awful lot, and whatever they’re doing here is fairly silly and somewhat unexpected and a lot of fun. Michael doesn’t want to drag him suddenly into some kind of bare-your-soul scenario and scare him off. So although he coaxes, sometimes, he tries to make it into a bit of a joke. Always says something to make David laugh, to get him off-guard enough that he doesn’t do a total frozen rabbit impression when Michael says, “There must be _something_ you want to do, something you want to use me for. Free pass, see?”

And it’s the third or fourth time they’ve had this conversation— in which David usually laughs again, or prevaricates, or says something annoyingly endearing like, “Oh, but all this is just lovely,”— that David sighs, and rubs a couple of fingers in one eye, and says, “Well, all right then, you could slap me in the face.”

It’s obvious that David is, to put it mildly, comfortable taking direction. This seems to be partly down to a dry, rather charming pragmatism— “I’ll be honest, I haven’t seen another one of these in a good while,” he’d told Michael’s cock, the first time he’d been in a position to address it— but partly down to actual gratification in being given something to do. Michael had assumed, as David pulled his hand into his hair, told Michael to put him where he’d like him, that this was part and parcel of a pretty simple desire to please. David’s a bit like that, anyway: wants to get things right, likes to keep people happy, would literally rather die than send something back in a restaurant, et cetera. So if you’re doing what you’re told, it means you’re doing something well, giving someone what they want, and yeah, sure, Michael gets it.

But David has just asked for— not that. Something else altogether. Something that’s not about giving pleasure, or even following instruction, or doing well, but— well, what is it about? Submission?

Michael pushes his hand through the tangle of his own hair, brain clicking over ferociously, and manages not to say any of this out loud. Instead, he says something equally smooth like, "No, sorry, I didn’t mean— I mean, yeah, if you want that, I can do that, if you'd like?"

David stops apologising, and says, “Yeah, I’d like that.” He looks pleasantly surprised, but also like this is not a huge deal, like he’s ordering something particularly nice for lunch. (And then not sending it back, obviously.)

All right then. No problem. Michael offered, didn’t he? He smiles, and runs his knuckle lightly along David’s forearm, and wonders what to do next. He’s just about ready to admit that he’s going to have to ask how this should work, whether it’s something they should do sitting up, or— standing? Is it like a role play, do they get out of bed again? But David has settled himself back against the pillows like he does when he wants Michael on top of him, so there we go.

Michael follows the map, gets up on his knees, and straddles him. This feels familiar enough. Michael could easily bend down and kiss David from here; just a brief brushing kindness, or something deep and messy, try and rile him up with it. He could run his hands over David’s chest, get a couple of handfuls of the warmth of his skin. He could grind back against his hips in the way that makes David whine with pleased, impotent anticipation, try and start getting him up. Or, sure, Michael thinks, looking down, he could slap him in the face. That’s also possible from this angle.

Nobody’s actually asked Michael to do anything like this before. It’s funny, all of a sudden, to feel quite out of his depth. He and David have fallen into roles with one another, easily and slightly gratefully: David faux-modest and quietly eager, Michael ribald and generous, but they _are_ roles, and they both know it. Michael considers the possibility that David has been keeping quiet about what he wants precisely to avoid having to turn any of this on its head.

"You like this?" Michael asks, honestly intrigued. "You've done this before?"

David looks slightly surprised, but he says, "Yes." And then, after a moment of consideration, "Not with a man."

Michael doesn't know why that, particularly, makes something in his gut twist hot and tight. Some kind of stupid possessive impulse, probably. Or the fleeting image of David— younger, maybe, the boy-next-door grin, the big wide eyes, all of it— looking hopefully up at a woman and saying, _Nah, go on, harder._

David is looking up at him now, eyebrows raised. Anticipatory, but not uncomfortable, like he trusts Michael with this, which is… nice. Michael wants to ask: what’s this all about, then? Is it to do with— pain? Humiliation? It doesn’t feel much like either, at the moment. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s more to do with being in someone else’s hands. At their mercy.

David’s waiting, watching him, his eyes keen. So Michael frowns in concentration, and touches the fingers of one hand very lightly to David’s cheek, calculating. Thinks about, if one were to hit somebody in the face, how one might angle it. But then almost at once Michael realises that, funnily enough, what he very specifically knows how to do is how _not_ to hit someone. He knows the trick of it: how to make it look real, but not hurt. The mental trajectory his brain is plotting is pretend. For the stage.

Michael chews his lip and tries to rethink it, wondering how to trick himself out of the muscle memory. But David, who is following the line of his gaze, the angle of his hand, is catching up with the thought. He half-smiles, clearly amused, and says, “Don’t fuckin’ act it.”

That’s what does it, actually, David laughing at him a little bit. Not because Michael minds, at all, but because it’s so easy and natural, and David doesn’t seem worried in the least. So for one white-hot second, Michael stops thinking, trusts himself, and just does it. He brings his hand down on David’s cheek, sharp and abrupt, and hits him.

It’s not a smack. It doesn’t turn David’s head to the side. But it’s harder than Michael thought he was going to do it, and if David’s expression is anything to go by, it’s harder than David was expecting, too. The sound of it vibrates into the quiet around them, and they stare at one another. _Oh, shit_, Michael thinks, just before David says, suddenly far more serious, “Do that again.”

Michael does it again before he has time to think about it. Quick, clean, precise. And a little bit harder; call it instinct. David gasps, this time, and flinches, but not in discomfort. In, oh, the opposite. His hips twitch upwards, just under where Michael is straddling him, and his eyes slide briefly closed. But when he opens them again, he looks shaken and wanting in a way that Michael barely recognises, and in a way that Michael has being trying so hard to pry out of him before now. Michael’s skin prickles hot. He’d do anything David asked, he thinks, to keep him looking exactly like this.

David, obviously, doesn’t ask. But Michael listens to him anyway: takes in his wide-open eyes and the taut stretch of his body, and shifts himself backwards a little so that he can reach down between them and touch David’s cock. And, God, David’s almost completely hard. No warm-up to get him there, none of Michael’s unhurried hand or mouth or conveniently-positioned thigh. Christ, he can’t believe David’s never asked him for this before. This strange, untested intimacy of skin touching skin, but so unlike a caress.

"Again?" Michael says, although the answer is obvious.

“Yeah,” David says, voice thready, “Yeah, keep going.” Then, "I'll tell you if I want you to stop."

The way David is sprawled underneath Michael is a fascinating combination of tension and total abandon. There’s a flush creeping into his chest, visibly rising and falling with his breath, and his cock is still filling, twitching in Michael’s hand. His mouth is open, and Michael can see the pink of his tongue and the white of his teeth. He doesn’t make David wait entirely on purpose, but he does allow himself a moment to take him in.

“Jesus, I really fucking fancy you,” he tells David, which makes him laugh again, a puff of surprised breath between them. Then Michael squeezes his hand on David’s cock, gives it a good firm pull, and hits him again at the same time.

This drags a startled and fairly indecent noise out of David’s throat, and this time the slap does turn his cheek to the pillow. His hips stutter, his cock pushing into Michael’s fist, and when Michael smooths his hand up and down it, it’s already beginning to leak. He’s never seen David so turned on so quickly by anything. It seems unreal, almost impossible, like a cheat in a game. The secret panel that opens the door behind the bookshelf. Michael is breathless with it.

David's left cheek is red. It's not a bruise, it’s not an _injury_, but it’s not fading, for the moment. It sits there, hot and obvious and something more than the faint blush of arousal that’s blooming across the rest of his skin. It’s the imprint of Michael on his body, and the answering sting is in Michael’s palm. Michael wants to feel it on David’s cheek, wants to to press his lips to it, but he also, to his surprise, wants to keep going. He wants to— mark him, is that it? Or give him what he wants? Does it matter?

David has turned his eyes up to him again. His breath is ragged, and he looks desperate and delighted all at once. He swallows, and waits. Then he licks his lips and says, “Give it some welly, then, come on— "

Michael smacks David once more across the cheek before he's quite finished the breath. He twists his hand up and over the head of his shock-hard cock, and David shudders all over and comes harder than Michael has ever seen him do— apart from, possibly, the very first time, David keening embarrassedly in his ear as Michael tugged him off against the wall of his hotel room. Now, David is gasping with it, panting. His whole upper body twists helplessly to one side, and his cock, which usually spills a relieved, warm little mess, actually shoots a jet of it onto his own chest, before dripping the rest rather surprisedly over his stomach and Michael’s fingers.

Michael’s mouth is dry, and possibly hanging open; but David has closed his eyes, and is coming gently down, breathing. He makes a little O of his mouth and blows the breath out, and then, with his eyes still closed, he laughs again, a quiet, slightly stunned little giggle, under his breath. When he opens his eyes he looks at Michael like he can’t quite believe that he, or either of them, have got away with it.

It’s infectious. Michael grins back at him. “Fucking hell, David,” he murmurs, and then he does touch his cheek, quite softly. The pads of his fingers brush over the heat in his skin, and trace the edge of his beard. When David makes a small noise of contentment, Michael dips his head and kisses the red bloom there, too. He darts his tongue out against it, painting a little whorl of spit against the skin. Soothing, maybe, or just for the sake of it.

David takes Michael’s head in his hands and drags him to his mouth, instead, and kisses Michael lazily for a while, which he sometimes likes to do just after he’s come. He rubs one hand like a massage through Michael’s hair, and then, before very long, his other hand gropes between them, trying to touch Michael’s cock. Michael hums against him and pushes his hips forward, angling into the grasp of David’s warm hand. This is nice for a while, but David’s touching him softly, idly, and before long it’s not quite enough. He stops kissing David for long enough to concentrate, rests their foreheads together, and wriggles his hips until David lets go of him. Then he wraps his own hand around himself and tugs harder, properly, _ah_, there we go.

"'m gonna come on you," Michael mumbles. He’s pulled his head up enough to see the trail of David's own come on his chest and stomach, which is keeping his pulse hammering, his blood warm, remembering making David do that. He should, oh, give David a good fucking, probably, if he knows what he almost certainly wants at this point, open him up and press him into the mattress until he’s writhing— but fuck, Michael wants this, apparently. To slap him about a bit and then shoot on his chest? God, how tawdry. "If that's...?"

"Yeah," says David, voice slow and sated, and then, "You should, ah— " readjusting himself on the bed, “ —on my face, you know, if you want— "

Michael nearly comes immediately, which under the circumstances would be a massive shame, but he stops moving and tightens his fingers round the base of his cock just in time. He blows out a long, careful breath. David’s tongue has a tendency to loosen with the rest of his muscles just after he’s got off, leaving him muttering half-tendernesses and half-suggestions while he’s warm and tired and satisfied enough to forget to be himself, or, possibly, briefly, to be it. But usually they’re both done, and it’s all quite clearly post-coital; or sometimes Michael’s still inside him, in which case David might ask him to go harder.

This, though, is more unprompted and rather dirtier than anything David has mumbled into the hot crease of Michael’s neck before, and for the second time in one short evening, Michael realises he’s just stopped and stared at him in surprise.

“Really?” Michael says, although he has to admit it doesn’t sound like an entirely idle thought. It sounds like something David might actually want, and that makes something at the base of Michael’s spine flare very hot, and his cock, already impatient, throb in his grip.

“Really,” David says, more assuredly this time. He props himself up just slightly on his elbows, and looks Michael in the eye, and somewhere in amongst the languid contentment in his expression there’s a spark of something else: playfulness, misbehaviour, a sort of dare. “Yeah, go on,” he says.

It’s all over almost before Michael knows it. He knees his way a little way further up David’s body until his cock is pointing obscenely obviously at him, and then he drags his hand over himself. David has his eyes open and his lips parted and his cheek is still stained bright red, and Michael imagines his own come striped over that warm bit of skin, and then he doesn’t have to, because it is. He pants in relief, cock jerking, still spilling, and David makes an absolutely filthy noise, a deep, satisfied groan, as it drips over his cheek and his beard and the corner of his mouth.

“Oh my God,” says Michael, after a moment, voice nearly cracking. His thighs are burning, all of a sudden, and he shifts himself off David, sinking down next to him on the bed. This time Michael is the one who starts laughing, astonished, disbelieving. David is smiling back at him and Michael lifts his hand, tries to wipe his face with the base of his palm. “Oh my _God_, you look— ”

David leans in and kisses him again, messy and exhausted, with the taste of Michael’s own come at one corner. Michael keeps laughing against his mouth: it _is_ funny, totally ridiculous, that it’s all over. Ten minutes, fifteen tops, absolutely useless. But also, Michael doesn’t care at all, not when David curls up warm and pleased around him and won’t let him get up, and keeps mouthing contentedly at the back of Michael’s neck pretty much until he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even have a corresponding anonymeme prompt to explain to myself why I've written this. Please release me from this hell. You can also reblog this [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/190244322432/merely-players-equestrianstatue-good-omens).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and one man in his time plays many parts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624369) by [Enterthetadpole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole)


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